A few days after Krysia tells me about Pankiewicz, I am standing in the corner of the anteroom, putting the papers into the file cabinet. The new filing system I created has worked well, but I have to be sure to file the papers at least once a week so that I do not get behind. I pause to wipe my brow. It is mid-July and quite warm, despite the fact that it is not yet ten o’clock and both windows are open.

Suddenly, the Kommandant comes through the front door of the anteroom. Malgorzata is at his heels. “In my office, please,” he says as he passes, without looking at me. I hesitate, surprised. We had our daily meeting nearly two hours ago and he has never called me in a second time so quickly, much less invited Malgorzata to join us. Something is wrong. A chill passes through me. The passes, I remember suddenly, my stomach dropping. Someone has noticed that the security passes I took are missing. Perhaps Malgorzata has told him that I was acting strangely the day they went missing, or that I was seen lingering outside Colonel Krich’s office by one of the other secretaries. Feeling faint, I grab the edge of the file cabinet for support.

“Anna…?” I jump and spin around. Colonel Diedrichson has entered the anteroom and is looking from me to the door of the Kommandant’s office expectantly.

“Yes, I’m coming,” I reply. Willing my hands not to shake, I take my notebook from the top of the file cabinet. Colonel Diedrichson follows me through the door of the Kommandant’s office.

“Sit down,” the Kommandant says. Out of the corner of my eye, I study his face, looking for some sign of anger or accusation, but he is looking away from me, his expression imperceptible. Colonel Diedrichson places himself stiffly in the chair, leaving me the spot on the sofa beside Malgorzata, who has placed herself at the end closest to the Kommandant. As I sit, my mind races, trying to come up with a response if I am confronted about the passes, a reason why I was near Krich’s office that morning. The Kommandant clears his throat. “We are to have an official visit from Berlin,” he announces.

So this is not about the passes after all. A wave of relief washes over me.

“Sir?” Colonel Diedrichson sounds startled. It is the first time I have heard any emotion in his voice. “A delegation?” I, too, am surprised. Though I recall Ludwig mentioning a delegation visit at the dinner party, I have not heard or seen anything about it since my arrival.

“Yes, it was decided only yesterday. Three very senior members of the SS leadership. They arrive Thursday.” The Kommandant takes a stack of papers from his desk and distributes a portion of it to each of us. “That is only three days away and there is much to be done. The governor will meet with the delegation, of course, but all of the arrangements are to be over-seen by this office. Colonel Diedrichson will take care of the itinerary and logistics. Anna, you are to assist him, and to make sure everything here in the office goes smoothly.” Though still not entirely sure what he needs from me, I nod. “Malgorzata, please see that the office is immaculate.”

“Yes, Herr Kommandant!” Malgorzata replies, lifting her chin as though she has been asked to guard state secrets.

“Good. That is all for now.” Colonel Diedrichson stands and starts for the door and Malgorzata and I follow close behind. “Anna, wait a moment, please.” The Kommandant gestures me over to the side of the desk, but does not speak until the others have gone.

“Yes, Herr Kommandant?” Closer now, I can see that his face is pale, his eyes bloodshot.

“I don’t have to tell you how important this visit is to me, to all of us in the General Government.” I nod, wondering why he is telling me this. “Everything must go perfectly. I am counting on you to help make this happen.”

“Me?” I cannot help but sound surprised.

“Yes. You are very capable and have an eye for detail. Make sure Colonel Diedrichson and the others forget nothing. If you think something is being missed or wrong, let me know immediately. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Herr Kommandant.”

“Good.” He lowers his head, placing his hands on his temples.

“Are you all right?”

“Just a headache,” he replies, not looking up. “I’ve always gotten them, though they’ve been more severe of late with all of the stress.”

“Perhaps an aspirin?” I offer, but he shakes his head.

“These headaches require something stronger. I have medicine that my doctor prescribed.”

“Very well. Is there anything else that you need?”

“Not right now,” he replies. He lifts his head slightly to look at me. “Thank you, Anna. I feel much better knowing that you are here.” I do not answer, but turn and walk hurriedly from the office.

The next several days are a blur of activity. Word of the visit spreads quickly around the castle, and soon every office is abuzz with preparation. The cleaning staff of Wawel work around the clock to make the marble sparkle and the endless windows shine. The Nazi flags are taken down from the hallway, pressed and rehung. Malgorzata, seeming not to trust anyone else to clean our offices sufficiently, does most of the work herself. I watched as she spends a day and a half on her knees, scrubbing the floor.

My own role is limited. The day after our meeting, I help Colonel Diedrichson type the final version of the itinerary which, he tells me, is classified for security reasons. The delegation, a party of three high-ranking Nazis and their military attachés, will be here for one night, and will visit the labor camps Plaszow and Auschwitz and the ghetto. I shudder as I read the last part. In truth, I know that the ghetto is large, that there is only the slightest chance the delegation will see my parents, but still…I force the thought from my mind, keep working. On Friday, the Kommandant invites me to sit in on a review of the itinerary with himself and the colonel. When every last detail has been reviewed, the Kommandant declares that we are ready.

That night, my stomach twists as I think of the visit. “I wish there was some way I could be ill tomorrow,” I confide to Krysia that night after dinner as I clear the table. “I haven’t been this nervous since my first day of work.”

“You’ll be fine,” Krysia reassures, still seated at the table. She is trying to spoon peas into Lukasz’s mouth. “You work around the Nazis every day.”

I shake my head. “These are different.” They are SS from Berlin, I think. Surely something will give me away.

Handing me a plate, she continues, “Anyway, if they are like other self-important men, chances are they won’t even notice you.” Looking over at Krysia, I find that she is smirking.

“Krysia!” I exclaim, surprised. I cannot help but giggle. Her observation is both funny and true at the same time. With the possible exception of the Kommandant, men of stature, whether they are Nazis or professors, seem to look right through young women such as me. Suddenly, we are both laughing full and hard. It is not just her comment, but the ludicrousness of the entire situation and months of pent-up anxiety. Lukasz stares at us in amazement. He has never seen either, much less both of us, in hysterics. Soon he joins in, cackling wildly and banging his spoon against the table. Peas fly everywhere. The sight of him makes us laugh even harder. Later that night in bed, I find that my throat is scratchy from laughing. It is no longer accustomed to making such a sound.

The next day I arrive at work half an hour early. The Kommandant, Colonel Diedrichson and Malgorzata are already there, scurrying around with last-minute preparations as though the delegation was scheduled to arrive momentarily, instead of in the early afternoon. We do not take lunch that day. Even the Kommandant, usually so composed, paces from his office, through the anteroom, to the reception area and back again. For once, he barely seems to notice me. At exactly twelve-forty-five, the telephone in the reception area rings and Malgorzata throws herself across the desk to get it. “Herr Kommandant, they’re here!” she exclaims.

“Early…” I hear him mutter under his breath, as though this was a bad sign. “To your desks, please, ladies.” He straightens his jacket. “Colonel, come with me.” As the men leave the office, I look at Malgorzata. She is sitting perfectly straight in her chair, smoothing her hair, her face flushed with excitement. I have never despised her more.

I return to the anteroom and close the door. I sit behind my own desk and assume what I perceive to be a professional position, tablet and pen in hand. A few minutes later, I hear heavy footsteps and deep voices in the hallway, followed by the sound of the front office door opening. The voices are louder now. Breathe, I think. Act naturally. The door to the anteroom swings open, and the Kommandant enters. He is followed by seven men. Though I keep my head low, I can tell that the three men immediately behind them in heavily decorated brown uniforms are the official delegation. The other three younger men who follow are clearly the attachés. None of the men are as tall or imposing as the Kommandant. Krysia was right, I think, as they pass me without looking in my direction. Perhaps if I do not have to interact with them, I can manage this after all.

The last of the party is Colonel Diedrichson. As he reaches the door of the Kommandant’s inner office, he turns to me. “Anna, bring eight coffees. Quickly.”

Inwardly, I cringe. I had not anticipated having to serve refreshments. For a moment, I consider asking Malgorzata to do it, but I know the Kommandant would prefer to have me. “Yes, Colonel,” I reply, rising and heading for the small kitchen just down the hallway. A few minutes later, I return through the reception area, balancing a serving tray laden with a pitcher of hot coffee and saucers. Malgorzata opens the door to the anteroom without my having to ask her, and I can tell from the way she follows me that she is hoping to come into the office, too. “Thank you, Malgorzata,” I whisper firmly when she has opened the door to the Kommandant’s inner office for me. She turns away, defeated.

I had hoped that I could place the tray on the low coffee table and leave, but it is clear from the way the delegation is spread out across the room that I will have to serve. I walk first to the far end of the office where the Kommandant and two senior officers are clustered around the conference table, poring over a large map. Keeping my eyes low, I set down the tray and begin to pour the coffees. As I begin to pour the last cup, my hands tremble involuntarily. Hot coffee splashes over the edge of the cup, burning my hand and I jump, setting the cup back on the tray with a loud, clattering sound. One of the officers looks up at me, glaring.

“Anna,” the Kommandant says softly. I expect him to sound angry, but he does not. Our eyes meet. He is staring at me intensely, his expression one of concern and, I think, something else I cannot describe. My breath catches. “Thank you.” I nod, my eyes still locked with his.

“Kommandant Richwalder…” a male voice says. My head snaps to the right. For a moment I have almost forgotten where we are, that there are others in the room. The men at the table have stopped working and are staring at us. The officer who glared at me has turned slightly toward the Kommandant, bewildered. I can tell he is unaccustomed to hearing someone of the Kommandant’s stature address his subordinates with kindness, and that he is even more taken aback by the way the Kommandant looks at me.

“Thank you, Anna,” the Kommandant repeats. “That will be all.” He clears his throat and rearranges the papers on the table in front of him before addressing the men. “Now, if you will turn to the chart on page three…”

Taking care not to spill again, I carry the tray to the Kommandant’s desk, where the third delegation member sits, talking on the telephone. He does not look up. The photograph of the Kommandant and the dark-haired woman has been removed from the corner of his desk, I notice as I pour. I quickly pass out the remaining cups to Diedrichson and the other attachés who are sitting around the coffee table by the door. These are younger men, and as I bend over the low table I can feel their eyes on me, taking me in. My face burning, I straighten quickly and escape back to the anteroom.

I return to my desk, shaking. My head pounds. It will be over soon, I tell myself. The delegation is only scheduled to be in the office for a brief time, and they will not be coming back. Twenty minutes later, the voices inside the Kommandant’s office grow louder and the door opens. The Kommandant, leading the group once more, does not look at or speak as he passes me, and for a moment I wonder if he is angry at me for spilling the coffee. But as he reaches the door, he turns back toward me. “I’ll call you,” he says. I nod. He told me yesterday that I am not to leave at the normal time tonight, but that I should stay in case the delegation needs anything. He has promised to let me know once they have retired for the night so I can go home.

When I hear the front door of the reception area close, I exhale. They are gone. A few minutes later, I pick up the serving tray and reenter the Kommandant’s office to clean up the coffee cups. I could have left it for the Wawel cleaning staff, or even Malgorzata, to do, but I want to see if the delegation left any papers behind. The Kommandant’s desk and coffee table are as clean as before they arrived, except for the empty cups. As I near the conference room table, I stop. There, spread out as it had been when I served, is the map the men had been poring over. Easy, I tell myself, as I approach the table. It’s just a map. Surely they wouldn’t have left it behind if it was important.

I look over my shoulder to make sure Malgorzata has not followed me. The door to the office is closed. Slowly, I edge my way toward the map, keeping the serving tray in one hand and an empty cup in the other, so that I can appear to be cleaning if anyone walks in. I look down. It is a map of Kraków, labeled in German. There are several buildings outlined in red: Wawel Castle, the administrative offices on Pomorskie Street, Kazimierz, the ghetto. There are red arrows pointing from Kazimierz to the ghetto. Probably just all of the places they are going to visit, I think, as I start to clean up once more. Then, as I reach to pick up the last coffee cup, I stop again. The arrows, I realize, aren’t pointing to the ghetto, they are going through the ghetto toward Plaszow, the labor camp. And drawn through the ghetto, in pencil, is a large X. I freeze, the hair on the back of my neck standing on end. The ghetto has been crossed out. What can it mean? Another akcja? Are all of the ghetto inhabitants to be deported to Plaszow? Stop it, I think, as my stomach starts to twist. Don’t go imagining things you know nothing about. I make a note to tell Alek when I see him again on Tuesday.

I return the tray and cups to the kitchen, then return to my desk. The rest of the day passes uneventfully. Except for a single trip to the water closet, I remain glued to my seat in case the Kommandant should call. At five o’clock, Malgorzata sticks her head in. “I can stay if you want,” she offers.

I shake my head. I know she would like to linger in the hope that I might share some details about the delegation. In truth, I am not looking forward to staying in the empty office by myself, but the thought of her prying company is more than I can bear. “No, thank you. There’s really nothing to be done.” As she departs, I can hear the other secretaries in the hallway, leaving for the day. I spend an hour or so finishing the filing I had begun earlier in the week and updating the Kommandant’s address list. The office is completely silent, except for the faint ticking of the clock above my desk. When my work is complete, I look up. It is only six-forty-five. The delegation is probably just beginning their first course at Wierzynek, the elegant Polish restaurant I had recommended to Diedrichson. I could be here for several more hours. I reach into my bag and pull out my own supper, a cold stew left over from the night before and a thick wedge of bread. Looking around the silent, empty room, I sigh, imagining Krysia and Lukasz sitting down to supper without me. I wonder if the child will fuss because I am not there.

Another hour passes. Still the Kommandant has not called. I wonder if he has forgotten about me. Finally, when I can stand it no longer, I leave my desk and race to the washroom. As I reenter the reception area, I can hear the phone in the anteroom ringing. It may be the Kommandant, I think, running for it. “Tak?” I say breathlessly, forgetting to answer in German.

It is not the Kommandant, but Colonel Diedrichson. “Is he there?” he asks impatiently.

“Who?”

“The Kommandant, of course.” He sounds annoyed. “He said he needed to stop back at the office and asked me to escort the delegation back to the hotel.”

“I don’t think…” I start to say, then look toward the Kommandant’s office. Yellow light shines from under the closed door. “Oh, yes, he is here. He must have come in when I stepped away for a minute. Do you want to speak with him?”

“No, I just wanted to make sure he got back all right,” he replies, his voice strange. “His car will be waiting downstairs when he’s ready.”

“I will tell him when I see him.” I hang up the phone and look at the door to the Kommandant’s office. Should I knock to see if he needs anything? I start across the anteroom, then hesitate. I will wait a few minutes, I think, turning around. On the way back to my desk, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window and smooth my disheveled hair. I return to my seat behind the desk, staring uneasily at the door. It is not like the Kommandant to be in the office at night. Why has he come back? Ten minutes pass, then twenty. No sound comes from the Kommandant’s office. I wonder if he has fallen asleep.

At last, I walk to the office door and knock lightly. There is no answer. I open the door a few inches. The Kommandant stands over the map with his back to me, looking down, head tilted toward his right shoulder.

“Herr Kommandant?” He does not seem to hear me. “Do you need anything?” I ask after several seconds of silence. He spins unsteadily from the conference table to the enormous glass window behind his desk. He has been drinking, I realize. My suspicion is confirmed as I cross the room and am assaulted by the thick odor of brandy and sweat. I am surprised; until now, the Kommandant has always appeared thoroughly composed. I have never seen him so much as touch the glass bottle of brown liquid that sits on the edge of his desk.

“Herr Kommandant,” I repeat tentatively. He does not answer. I gesture toward the unfamiliar folder clutched in his right hand. “Is that for me?” He shakes his head unevenly, dropping the folder into the open top drawer of his desk. I make a mental note to try to look there the next time he is out. “Do you have some work you would like me to do in the morning when you are with the delegation?” As I walk closer, I notice a gray shadow of stubble on his jaw. He is unkempt and there is a distressed look in his eyes that I have never seen before.

He stares out the window once more at the dusky sky over the river. “I saw Auschwitz today,” he says suddenly. Auschwitz. The word sends a chill through me. We had heard rumors about the camp since before the ghetto, almost since the beginning of the war. Many of the stories had come from the rural Jews who were forced to migrate to Kraków. A labor camp, some had said originally, for political prisoners. During my last months in the ghetto, though, the stories had become more gruesome. Rumor had it that the camp was filled with Jews, not so much working as dying in tremendous numbers. I had heard nothing more about it since coming to Krysia’s. No one working at Wawel ever spoke of it until the delegation visit was announced. Auschwitz. I understand now why the Kommandant has been drinking.

I am uncertain what to say. “Oh?” I try to make my tone inviting, hoping that he might say more, perhaps something useful I could relay to Alek. But he does not speak for several minutes.

“Yes,” he continues at last. “I never thought…” He does not have to finish the sentence. I understand. The Kommandant considers himself a gentleman, a man of music, art and culture. In his twisted way of thinking, service to the Reich is something noble and patriotic, and the Jewish question is an ugliness to be tolerated from afar. He has sequestered himself in Wawel, ruling his dominion from a great height, shielding himself from the killing. From where he sits, the ghetto is just a neighborhood where the Jews are forced to live. Plaszow is just a labor camp. I am sure that he justified his time at Sachsenhausen, too, seeing it as a prison, its inhabitants criminals who deserved their surroundings. He hadn’t seen, hadn’t wanted to see the starvation, disease and murder of innocent civilians. Until now. Today he has been forced to go to Auschwitz, and the reality of what he has seen is so terrible it has unraveled him, driven him to drink. This terrifies me more than anything else has since the beginning of the war.

“Dreadful, I am sure.” I wish that I could look inside his mind and learn what he has seen that day. Though I might have preferred it, I cannot bury my head in the sand like an ostrich as I once had done in the ghetto. I need to learn as much as possible, for the sake of my family and the resistance. But the Kommandant seems unwilling to say more.

“Herr Kommandant,” I say again, when he has stared at the wall for several more minutes. He looks at me quizzically, as though he has forgotten, or is unsure why I am there. “You look tired,” I offer. He half nods, leaning against the back of his desk chair with one arm. “Let me help you to your car.” I go to the sofa where his military jacket lies in a heap and carry it to him. He holds his arms out and I help him into the sleeves as I would Lukasz. I can feel the warmth of his skin through the fabric. “Come,” I say, guiding him by the arm out of the office. In the hallway, he straightens a bit and is able to make it down the stairs and outside.

At the end of the ramp, Stanislaw, the Kommandant’s driver, stands by the awaiting sedan, emblazoned with a swastika on the side. “Dobry wieczor,” he greets us in his deep baritone as we approach the open rear car door. The Kommandant bends clumsily to enter the car, his head swinging within inches of the roof. Without thinking, I place my hand gently on the back of his neck and guide him into the car. He falls as he sits, his weight pulling on my outstretched arm. Caught off balance, I tumble into the car and land awkwardly, partially on top of the Kommandant. I quickly straighten to a sitting position, my face flushed.

“Well, I’d better be going,” I begin, but before I can exit the car, Stanislaw shuts the door behind me. “Wait…” I protest. I look to the Kommandant for help but his eyes are closed, head back. “All right, I guess I will have to help get you home, too.” He snores once in response.

As we make the short drive from Wawel to the Kommandant’s apartment just off the Planty, I look around the interior of the car. I have been in precious few automobiles in my life, and certainly none as grand as this. Fingering the plush leather seat, I peer out the window. The streets are thronged with people running errands and heading home. They stop and stare as we pass in the large, dark sedan with a swastika on the side. I can see the fear in their eyes.

A few minutes later, the car pulls up before an elegant brownstone building. Stanislaw and I help the still-groggy Kommandant to his feet. The doorman unlocks the gate, then stands aside to let us pass. We guide the Kommandant up a flight of marble steps, and Stanislaw unlocks the apartment door. Once inside, the Kommandant is able to make it to the sofa on his own, where he sits, head slumped forward.

Stanislaw retreats from the room and closes the door quickly behind him, leaving me standing in the middle of the Kommandant’s apartment. Taking up an entire floor of the brownstone, it is every bit a man’s place: large and impersonal, with only a few pieces of heavy oak furniture and a single sofa covered in maroon velvet. The air smells thickly of stale cigar smoke and brandy, as though it has not been aired out for years. Heavy, dark curtains obscure what I imagine to be a spectacular view of the city skyline.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other, waiting for the Kommandant to speak, but he does not. “Herr Kommandant, it’s late,” I say at last. “If there’s nothing else…”

“Anna, wait,” the Kommandant mumbles, lifting his head slightly. “Don’t go.” He gestures for me to come closer.

Reluctantly, I walk toward the sofa. “Yes, what is it that you need?”

He hesitates. “Nothing. I mean that, I don’t want…” he falters. “That is, if you could just stay awhile.”

He doesn’t want to be alone, I realize, surprised. I sit down at the far end of the sofa. “I can stay a few minutes,” I say.

“Thank you.” He reaches over and, before I can react, grabs my left hand. “Are you okay?” he asks, turning my hand over so the palm faces down. “Your hand…I mean, you burned it with the coffee didn’t you?”

For a moment, I am too startled to respond. “It’s the other one,” I reply at last, pulling my left arm away.

“Let me see,” he insists, his voice clearer now. I raise my right hand slowly and he takes it, cradling it in his two much larger ones, studying it. In the rush of the day, I had nearly forgotten about the burn, but the area just above my thumb is red and blisters are beginning to form. “Wait here,” he instructs.

I start to protest but he disappears into the kitchen, leaving me alone in the enormous room. I’ve got to get out of here, I think uneasily, fighting the urge to flee while he is gone. Forcing myself to calm down, I look around once more. The room is devoid of any personal effects except for a framed photograph on the mantelpiece.

Despite my unease, I cannot help but be curious. I walk toward the photograph. It is a portrait of a woman, the same woman who is in the photograph that had been on the Kommandant’s desk. She is beautiful, with flowing raven hair, high arched brows and flawless skin.

“Here,” the Kommandant says as he reenters the room. I spin away from the photo toward him. He is carrying a damp cloth, a small jar and a bandage. “Sit down.” Reluctantly, I allow him to lead me to the sofa, where he cleans and dresses my hand. “All done,” he says a moment later. His hand lingers atop mine. Our eyes meet.

“Thank you,” I manage to say, pulling my hand back.

“Of course.” He straightens but does not look away. “I can’t have an assistant with a bad hand, now can I?”

“I suppose not.” I force myself to look away, then stand and walk to the photograph on the mantelpiece once more. “What a beautiful picture,” I remark, lifting the frame gently.

“Margot,” he replies from the couch, his voice now barely a whisper.

“Your wife, Herr Kommandant?” I venture.

“She was.” Suddenly, he is beside me. He grabs the picture from my hands and looks at it intently, as though his gaze might bring the image to life. What became of her? I wonder. I look up at him, hoping he will say more, but he continues staring at the picture silently, as though he has forgotten I am there. Sensing that this is my opportunity to leave, I walk quickly to the door and open it. “It’s late, so I’ll be going now.” Still staring at the picture, he does not respond. “Good night,” I say as I slip out of the apartment and down the stairs.

At the entrance to the building, Stanislaw waits by the car. I climb in, and without question or remark, he shuts the door behind me and starts out the long, winding road to Krysia’s. He knows the way, I realize, from having driven the Kommandant to the dinner party. I lean my head against the cool glass of the car window, seeing the Kommandant’s face in my mind. There was a desperation about him tonight that I had not seen before, especially when we were in his apartment alone together. He did not want me to leave, I realize, perhaps because he was drunk. Or maybe he just didn’t want to be alone.

Suddenly, I remember waking that last morning in the Baus’ apartment, finding Jacob, and then my parents gone. It was the one time in my life I had been completely alone and it terrified me. Some people manage to live perfectly well on their own, I know, like Krysia before Lukasz and I arrived. Still, it must be awful for the Kommandant to spend his nights in that empty, enormous apartment, haunted by the memory of his wife, Margot. I’d heard rumors around Wawel that the Kommandant had been married, but he had not spoken of her before. Tonight, though, it was as if he had seen a ghost. Maybe it was just the alcohol. Or perhaps there was something about what he had seen that day at Auschwitz that stirred his memories.

Auschwitz. A chill passes through me suddenly. I must tell Alek about the Kommandant’s visit there, and about the map I saw on the table, at our next meeting. It could be important, I think, seeing the Kommandant’s hollow, haunted eyes before me. I shiver as we speed past the trees and houses, leaving the last smoky traces of sunset behind us.

Krysia and Lukasz are asleep when I arrive home, so I tiptoe upstairs and undress quietly. Despite my confusion about the events of the evening, I am exhausted from all of the preparations for the official visit and my eyes grow heavy as I climb into bed. I immediately begin to dream that I am on a train that is speeding toward the mountains. Jacob, I am certain, is on the train, if only I could find him. I make my way through the crowded passenger cars, searching. Finally, I see the back of a man that looks familiar to me walking through the car several meters ahead. He has Jacob’s slight build and the same-color hair. I walk faster, then begin running in an attempt to catch up. Finally, I am just a few feet behind him. I reach out, grab the man’s shoulder. “Jacob!” I call as he spins around. I freeze. The face is not my husband’s; it is the Kommandant’s.

“Oh!” I cry aloud, sitting up in bed, breathing heavily. My mind races. For months, I have had dreams of chasing Jacob. That made sense; I miss my husband. But now this…? I cannot fathom it. Stop, I tell myself finally. It was only a dream. You are under a lot of stress at work, you are troubled because you had a bizarre conversation with the Kommandant. That is the only reason for the dream. I lay back down and pull the duvet up, not reassured. A disturbing thought creeps into my brain: perhaps the dream means something else. No. I shake my head in the darkness. It does not, cannot mean anything. I force myself to think pleasant thoughts of Jacob until I am able to fall asleep once more.

The Kommandant is not in the office when I arrive the next morning. The itinerary indicated that he would be meeting the delegation at their hotel, and escorting them to the ghetto and Plaszow before they depart for Berlin at noon. Not wanting to be caught away from my desk again, I do not go out for lunch that day. At exactly twelve-fifteen, the door to the anteroom opens and the Kommandant strides in. “Anna, come in, please,” he says crisply as he passes.

I follow the Kommandant into his office. He walks to his desk and picks up the stack of papers I left for him. I stand a few feet away and study his face, wondering if he will say anything about the previous night. But if he feels embarrassed about his drunkenness, he gives no sign of it. Perhaps he does not remember. Except for two faint, dark circles under his eyes, he looks completely normal. He looks up from the papers. “I will be leaving for Berlin tomorrow.”

“Berlin tomorrow?” I repeat, unable to mask my surprise.

“Yes. There are some matters that arose from the delegation’s visit that require me to follow up personally.”

He hands me several pieces of paper. “My travel itinerary.” He crosses the room, gesturing for me to follow. I sit on the sofa and look up, expecting him to pace the floor as he usually does. To my surprise, he sits down on the chair beside me. The cool pine scent of his aftershave wafts under my nose, making my stomach twitch. “As you can see, Colonel Diedrichson has made my travel arrangements,” he continues. I can barely hear him over the buzzing in my ears. The Kommandant’s unexpected departure and the masculine smell of aftershave combine to make my head feel light.

“I will be gone ten days,” he concludes a few minutes later, looking up from the papers and meeting my gaze. I blink, realizing I have not heard most of what he has said. “Anna, are you all right? You look a bit pale.”

“Is it safe to make such a trip these days?” I ask. The words from my mouth surprise me, as though they had been spoken by another.

“Relatively,” he replies. “I have to go, regardless. I have been summoned to an important meeting, and it would not do for me to appear concerned for my personal safety.” I nod, still unable to look away. “All right then. I think that’s everything for now.”

Taking my cue, I rise. My right leg has gone to sleep and I stumble slightly. The Kommandant reaches out and grabs my arm to steady me. “Careful,” he says softly, still holding on to my arm. Our eyes lock.

“I—I’m sorry,” I say, straightening. “It’s just that…” I hesitate, uncertain how to finish. His hand feels warm though the sleeve of my dress.

“You’ve been working hard lately,” he finishes for me. “You put in so many hours with the delegation visit.”

“Yes, that must be it,” I reply, grateful for the excuse.

“I will need your assistance with my travel preparations today. But you should take a day off while I am gone.”

“Thank you, Herr Kommandant.” I move quickly toward the door. I can feel the Kommandant’s eyes on my back as I retreat to the anteroom. Seated at my desk once more, I sort through the pile of papers he has given me with trembling hands. For the past few weeks, I have a nagging sense of what Krysia had noticed the night of the dinner party: Kommandant Richwalder is attracted to me. But it is not only the Kommandant’s behavior that concerns me. Why had I asked him if the trip would be safe? It is good for Anna to feign concern, I tell myself, though I knew the question had not been as calculated as I would like to imagine. My dream the night before had not been calculated, either. I sink back in my chair, shaken. Perhaps the Kommandant’s absence might be a good thing.

The rest of the day passes quickly. Five o’clock comes and goes, and the Kommandant remains in his office with the door closed. Another forty-five minutes pass. A wave of exhaustion comes over me. The Kommandant was right; I have been working long hours. I feel as though I have not seen Lukasz and Krysia in a month. A few minutes later, the door to the Kommandant’s office opens and he emerges carrying two briefcases. I rise to my feet.

He sets down the briefcases. “Well, I’m off.”

Seeing the bags, the reality suddenly hits me: the Kommandant is leaving. “Have a good trip,” I manage to say, swallowing over the lump that has formed in my throat.

“Thank you. Don’t hesitate to send a telegram if there is anything urgent. Or if you need anything at all.” I nod. He steps forward until he is just a foot or so away and I wonder if he is going to reach out and touch me. We stare at each other in silence, neither speaking. What is this? I wonder. What is happening between us? It is everything that has occurred these past few days, I tell myself. The strain of the delegation’s visit. The fact that he is leaving. “Well…” he continues after several seconds of silence.

“Be safe,” I say, meaning it. I am immediately ashamed to be wishing godspeed to a Nazi whom I should in fact want dead.

The Kommandant nods, picking up the briefcases once more. He clears his throat hard. “Goodbye, Anna.” He lingers another moment and then he is gone.